Angels and Devils
by Tearoom Saloon
Summary: She would always be the Eagle's fool and the Fox's player.
1. Angel: The Fool

The Angel side is Sherlock and Molly, the right-side up reading of the cards. It'll rotate with the Devil side, Moriarty, so you can just skip every other chapter if you're not keen on that paring.

None of the stories are related, the time frames are all scattered.

* * *

**0: The Fool**

She had been unprepared the first time she saw him. Tall, dark, and handsome; the clichéd, accurate description of the impossibly well-sculpted man that walked into her morgue. He called himself Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes when he introduced himself. She tripped out her name, _Molly_, she said meekly, intimidated by the sharp, icy eyes of the shrewd man. He flashed a smile at her—equally sharp, equally cold, predatory, powerful. He was the eagle; she was the mouse.

Molly choked her words out the next few times he entered her morgue, asking for body parts, dragging her up to the lab to run his tests, demanding his black coffee—_black as his heart_, she mused, every time he ignored her advances. Not that her advances were made clear, due to her nervousness. There was something about him that changed her, made her weak. Something damaging in those eyes, edged like a razor and forceful as a glacier. He was dangerous, oh yes, but not in a criminal sense. He was a danger to her mental health.

Nonetheless she fell. She fell so hard for the man with the keen sight and cutting tongue.

She convinced herself there was nothing wrong. Not when she stared, not when she found herself bending to his will, fetching his coffee, slowly being worn down to a doormat. Every time she turned around to tell him off, she caught sight of those eyes. Blue, fierce, and calming. She weakened instantly, dropped what she was doing instantly, crumbled instantly. She needed to break from his grasp, his hold, his magnetic field that trapped her in orbit around those jeweled eyes, the etched lips.

Over time, she grew strong. Grew to understand his patterns, his tactics, knew when he was using her for one thing or another. No slipped back into her vocabulary, and she occasionally slapped it at him, sometimes just to watch the shock spread like ripples across his crisp features, just to fade back into indifference a moment later. He never expected the No, and to catch him off guard gave her nothing but glee.

She built up her defenses after Christmas; strengthened all her walls, constructed the bastion, aimed the cannon, lit the fires, drew the bows. She garnished her face with war paint and mastered her march. She wouldn't let the great eagle carry her off to feed his hunger for knowledge, to cure his boredom. She pushed him from her inner sanctum, all thoughts of him, gone. Burned, flooded, slashed, and dragged out of her mind.

_You're wrong, you know. You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you. You were right; I'm not okay._

The walls came down. She surrendered herself to the eagle, the vulture, the hawk. He carried her off in his talons, and she watched as he dove as graceful as a raptor in flight. He broke like a necklace string, spilling his red beads on the ground, scattering them on the pavement.

She knew it was faked; he only lived because she was unable to untie the red string on her finger that linked her to him.

She would always be his Fool.


	2. Devil: The Fool

So the Devil side is reversed, and these ones center on Molly's dynamic with Moriarty

* * *

**0. The Fool**

He was new. Shy, even, not very good with people. He had rushed down to fix her computer when it had malfunctioned and seemed unable to speak to her properly. He tripped around his sentences like a drunk, a tipsy smile on his face. She found a slip of paper with a phone number written on it in her keyboard when he left.

She had almost not called. Too hung up on the Eagle to think about dating, too gone in his talons. But she had, somehow. She rang. She rang and rang and got no response. She wasn't disappointed, however. Not even surprised. It was her luck with men, really. Always the wrong ones, always the cold, the mysterious, and the uncaring.

The doors to the morgue flew open the next morning and she expected the Eagle, expected his steely glare, expected the ice in his voice and the uncharacteristic melting grin to trick her, trick her like a fool into his bidding. It wasn't the Eagle at the door, however.

It was the Hare.

And the Hare, unbeknownst to the Mouse, was just as clever as his feathered counterpart, if not cleverer. He brought coffee instead of demanding a cup. He smiled at her, a warm smile that lit his face like a lantern, unlike the Eagle's smile, which only froze his features. He asked her to dinner Wednesday, _something to make hump day exciting_, he had said, cheeks pink. She accepted.

She grew attached to the Hare and his clever ways. He wrapped her in his fur a way the Eagle never could, gave her shelter in the brutality of the world. He was a simple escape from the blizzard. It was bliss.

Bliss until the Eagle snapped the Hare's neck.

And from the skin of the Hare rose the Fox, his grin full of malice, his teeth full of flesh, and his mouth drenched in blood. He rose to tower over the Mouse, catching her in his quick jaws, staining her white pelt with the dark blood, claiming her for himself. She was unaware, dazed, confused, bamboozled, staring at the carcass of the Hare. It didn't add up, it _didn't make sense_.

It didn't make sense until the Fox cornered the Eagle and the Badger, his quick wit outrunning the Eagle's wings and the Badger's claws. By then it was too late for the Mouse; she was marked. He missed his target, and the Eagle escaped, his feathers unclipped.

The Mouse heard the whispers in the hall, the truth about the Hare-turned-Fox. She wept, for his deception, for his trickery, his mischief. She was played like a piano, sang like a harpsichord under his nimble fingers. And for that, she was ashamed.

He returned to her rooms after the Pool, his characteristic smile painted on his face. She nearly dropped her groceries.

_You're mine now_, he purred, his voice hypnotic and sensual to her ears. He had given her his time of day, even though it had been for an act. He had returned, his paws clean as they could be, running through her hair, tickling up her back, brushing a tear from her eye. He was a predator, she could see, his fangs poking over his lips.

She cried. The Mouse cried as the Fox stripped her on her bed, his razor teeth pinching the flesh of her neck, though never hard enough to tear her, to rip open her throat and drink her warm, luscious blood. He bit her just right.

Her eyes were unable to turn from his as he took her, struck with fear and curiosity. They were dark, dark as the blood he stained her with, dark as his mark, his mark on her flesh, her soul.

She cried out and he chuckled. _You're the Devil's Fool, little Mouse._


	3. Angel: The Magician

**I: The Magician**

It was after the Fall that she got closer to him, that he opened up to her. He was severed from his companion, his guide to humanity. He needed a new one, and there she stood, open and ready to remedy his loneliness. He wouldn't—_couldn't_—talk without her prodding, her insisting.

It started a few weeks after he was cooped inside, watching the rain fall on a dreary London, the sky an all-encompassing gunmetal. He stayed with Molly, with none of his original possessions. She had retrieved his original violin from John, but was unsuccessful obtaining anything else. He played it on occasion—when he was thinking or bored, arrangements still not made for his departure. She had never heard something so darkly beautiful.

"What are you playing?"

"The first movement of violin concerto no. 1, Shostakovich," he said without pause.

She nodded, hypnotized by the motion of the bow. She couldn't play an instrument, not like him. Her flat had never been filled with music before him. The notes complimented the thunder outside, the rhythm falling in time with the pellets on the windowpanes.

Molly would make tea as he played, always the same brew for the meticulous man. It became habit the moment the bow crossed the strings. Even now, as the notes became disharmonious, distant, distorted, she switched on the stovetop for him. It took only a week or two of living together for the synchronies to develop, for them to work wordlessly together. She understood how John had done it, how he had survived with the bizarre genius who stood in her parlor, violin in hand.

"What will I do without you," he said quietly as she brought tea in, setting two cups down on the coffee table.

"Go back to living with John?"

He shook his head. "Not yet."

"Then what?"

"I suspect travel," he said, dropping the bow from his instrument. "I cannot stay in England; Mycroft will no doubt find me, if he hasn't already. Thank you for the tea, Molly." He sat beside her on the sofa, violin in his lap. "What are you thinking about?"

She sighed and took a sip. "How much I'll worry when you're gone."

"No one will hurt you," he said, frowning. "They don't know you helped, you'll be—"

"For _you_."

He looked her over a moment, studying the fear in her eyes. "Oh."

"Fear you'll get killed, or won't come back, or get captured and tortured, or—"

"All of those things are highly improbable."

"Improbable doesn't mean impossible." She set her cup down and laid her head on his shoulder. "I've helped you this far, but what if no one else stands up to take my place, wherever you go? I won't be there for you and it worries me."

"I can take care of myself, there's no need for you to worry."

"You'll be alone."

He nodded. "That is true, I will be. But I'll come back safe."

"Will you come back in one piece, or will they ship your ear in a different box?"

Molly looked up to see him grinning. He set his violin down on the end table and pulled her into his lap, arms around her smaller frame. "I'll have them mail my toes separate."

"You'll come back and see me first, right?"

"I suspected I'd find John, considering you already know I'm alive."

"I won't know you _stay_ that way unless you keep contact."

She watched as a devilish look crossed his face. "That'll be the fun of it."

"_Sherlock!_"

He leaned in to kiss her gently. "I'll come to you first; I want a _proper_ homecoming."

"What will this homecoming entail?"

"Well." He stood and lifted her into his arms. "I suppose I could detail it to you now, but I doubt you'll have the hands to take notes," he said, carrying her to their shared bedroom. "I hope you have a fair memory."

He disappeared a few days later, leaving a note on the fridge with two words printed in his neat hand: _South America_. There was no other evidence of his presence, even his books and pens disappeared from her space. He had to be a magician, Molly figured.


	4. Devil The Magician

**I: The Magician**

She tried to ignore their similarities.

She stretched the same way he did, her laugh was beginning to sound like his, she made the same terrifying grin when excited.

He noticed, too. His eyes lit up innocently like hers when he was happy, he made the same frustrated noises, he sighed the same way.

They were becoming each other.

"This is so _boring_," she complained one night, flicking through channels on the telly. Irritated, she clicked it off and threw the remote across the room, narrowly missing his head.

"Watch it, Molly!" he warned, ducking. "I thought we were going out tonight?"

"Changed my mind, you can go alone." She sighed, sitting up. "I don't want to change into fancy clothes and put on airs."

"But _I'm_ already dressed."

"And you look very handsome, James, but I'm not feeling it."

"I wore my _nice_ suit," he whined.

That got her to laugh. "You only _own_ nice suits."

"Yes, but this is my stakeout suit. I was going to take you to Pied à Terre."

Her jaw dropped. "You're not serious."

"Dead serious. A trader I'm watching is going to be there tonight."

"And if I don't go, you'll take Sebastian?"

He nodded.

"I should let the two of you go just to hear the stories you'll come back with. How many restaurants think the two of you are a couple again?"

"Too many?"

"I don't think I've got a nice enough dress that goes with your tie."

"I can get a different _tie_, that's not an issue. You always have the worst excuses, Molly."

"But _Jaaaaammeessss_, I don't _own _nice dresses."

"You just alluded to owning ones of inappropriate colors!"

"I lied."

He rubbed his eyes, not sure whether to laugh or yell. "It's five, my reservations are at seven. I'll take you down to Debenhams or something."

"I cannot afford that on my salary."

"Sweetheart, you _do_ get paid for these side heists of yours."

"It's all in my savings."

"Molly—I—" he stopped, sighing. "_I'll_ pay, Jesus, don't be difficult."

"I like being difficult," she said, standing.

"Don't I know it," he muttered under his breath.

* * *

"I'm out of place here," Molly said quietly, shifting between the racks of clothing.

"Well, Molly, darling, do you have…an eccentric taste in clothes."

Moriarty moved gracefully behind her, slinking like a jaguar. She'd watched as the girl at the counter eyed the two of them suspiciously when they entered; the small, mismatched woman with a fierce walk being trailed by the tall, handsome, well-dressed gentleman (_gentleman criminal_), the two of them making a confusing pair.

"Eccentric? You mean eclectic. Poorly pulled off eclectic."

He sucked in a breath. "That too, I suppose."

"What's my price range?"

"I…don't care? Money's just a tool."

Molly grinned and turned a corner to the more expensive side of the department store. Here, there were dresses and suits and daywear and even some swimwear tucked into the corner, only a few months too early. Designer names were hung over sections of clothing, handbags, and shoes.

"There is one clause, however," Moriarty said into her ear when she stopped. "I get to pick the dress."

"That's _not_ fair."

"It's completely fair. I can't have you looking like a frumpy elephant or a wet mouse. You need to be elegant, delicate, like a…a sooty peacock."

"Sooty peacock?"

"Grey animals aren't generally graceful, if you haven't noticed."

She chewed her lip. "Fine, go pick a dress."

Those words were magic words, igniting a spark of a grin on his face. He grabbed her gruffly by the arm and dragged Molly into the fray of dresses, where he began rifling through hangers. "You wait. Don't touch anything."

"Are you sure?"

"Very sure. Go sit down."

She shrugged and waded through the racks and took a seat on a small bench outside the changing area. They could be here for as little as a half hour to as long as a day. James was a perfectionist—everything had to fit just so.

She pulled her phone from her purse and began the slow descent into casual, time-wasting games.

"I've narrowed it down to three dresses." His voice dragged her up from her trance. "But I need to see them on you to determine which is most suitable."

"I think this is the first time I'm taking clothes _off_ for you."

"Hush."

Seconds later, she found herself stuffed into a small dressing room with three dresses. One was a one-shoulder; satin, lightly ruched, and meant to accentuate the hips. Hips she didn't have. The shoulder decal was…_daring_. Second dress was flowing, light with a chiffon veil covering the skirt: definitely not for this season. The third was Grecian; complex back, probably polyester or rayon, looked difficult to put on, tied everywhere.

She started with dress number two—no zippers.

Jim frowned as she turned for him. "It doesn't accentuate anything. It's too formless. I take back what I said earlier; empire waist gowns are not the most flattering on you."

She squared her shoulders and went back in for round two.

"I need you to get the zipper," Molly said, the door open a crack.

She watched as Moriarty glanced in both directions before slithering into the dressing room. "I can see it shapes your figure well enough," he muttered, hands grazing up her back as the teeth of the zipper closed. "Turn around, love."

Obeying, Molly twirled to face him, hoping this dress was somewhat more acceptable.

"I think the shoulder's a little bold. I thought it would be fine, but you don't come off as bold, Molls. Not even with a cherry stain and wings."

"I question your sexuality at times."

"Not sure I have one, to be honest. What I do have, though, love, is an eye for wealth and taste."

"Calm down there, Jagger."

"Next dress," he announced as his arms wrapped around her to undo the zipper. "Better be good."

Molly let the dress drop to the floor. She had a slight increase in heart rate at his touch, which was odd, because usually when he touched her, he grabbed her, and she had to swallow the overwhelming urge to sock him in the jaw.

They had been spending _far _too much time together in the past few months.

"This dress is taking you for-_ev-_er," she heard Moriarty complain from outside.

"I can't tie it."

"What?"

She wrenched the door partway open. "I can't. Tie it," she said through gritted teeth, clutching the fabric to her chest.

"Let me," he said, forcing himself into the small space once again. She turned so her back was to him, the long sashes that made up the back of the dress draped over her shoulders. "What a design, why did I pick this?"

"I couldn't tell you."

He picked the lengths of fabric from her shoulders and began to wrap them around her body, around her waist, crossing her back, looping around her shoulders, with a final knot resting on the small of her back. "Turn for me one last time."

It was a slow circle of a turn this time, with Molly trying to control her breathing before facing him. She looked up, fear and anxiousness trapped like deer in her expression.

"I like the shape it gives your—are you _blushing?_" A wolfish grin snuck across his features. "Molly, Molly, Molly."

"It's just hot in here, is all."

"The queen of lies is incompetent under pressure. How do you get _anything_ done?"

Molly spun on her heel away from him, already fully embarrassed.

Strong hands caught her waist and she whipped back around, only this time Moriarty's face was closer.

"Your pupils are dilating, Molly."

"I figured as much. Are you going to test whether or not you've a sexuality?"

He looked up questioningly, his eyes moving from the height of the ceiling back to hers, wide and curious. "I might."

Her fists clenched and she squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the worst.

But the worst didn't come.

There was a flutter across her lips, like a butterfly's wings. The kiss was gentle, delicate, like a glass sculpture. He pulled away quickly, still hovering closer to her.

"I was expecting you to throw me against the wall," Molly said meekly, somewhat stunned.

"So was I. But we're in public still, kinda." He drew back a few inches, smirking. "Walls can wait 'til after dinner. This is the dress. It's a good choice. Know why?"

"Why?"

He tugged on the knot in the back. The two lengths of cloth slid off her, and with them, the dress, pooling like a flock of grey doves at her feet. "You can change back into it at my flat on our way to the restaurant. Take my debit card; I have to run and get you the right shade of lipstick."

"And you're _sure_ you're not gay?"

He shrugged and leaned in to kiss her again. "Positive."

* * *

**A/N:** Let's talk about how I'm the fuckin' bomb diggity at making criminals into total cuties.

(Let's not it's a horrible skill)


	5. Angel: The Empress

**II: The Empress**

It was a good day. The sun was high and warm. Spring was peeking out from nooks and crannies, flowers were shooting up through the cracks in the pavement, from pots, from the green grass. Birds hummed and chirped in the afternoon breeze, happy to see the golden light after a dreary winter.

Molly sat in the park with a book, waiting. She was perpetually waiting for that man. It was still chilly, and she had her cardigan buttoned up all the way. It was a simple grey, no pattern for this meeting. No patterns or funny clothes. It wouldn't bode well.

"I've kept you, haven't I?" asked the man as he sat beside her.

"Of course you have. You always do." She didn't look up, still drawn into her chapter.

"What are you reading?"

"A book on diseases and epidemics," she said calmly, flipping a page.

"Are you going to look at me?"

She turned to see his face, his perfect face. He wasn't smiling, but his expression wasn't unfavorable. Knowing him, she could confidently say he wasn't in a poor mood, perhaps he was even in a good one.

"You're wearing it." She reached to feel the cashmere scarf that was tied around his neck. She had given him the beautiful red scarf over a year ago, before the whole mess. Before he fell.

"I don't think I ever thanked you for it."

"You didn't."

He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. "Thank you, Molly."

She was gripped by a boldness budding inside with the spring flowers, tugging at his scarf, bringing his lips to hers. He was hesitant at first, but reciprocated nonetheless.

"How long?" she asked as they broke apart.

"A month, month and a half. Been trying to find the right words."

"The wrong words work in the right situation."

He smiled. "Words such as do you fancy coming over for dinner?"

"Those are never the wrong words."


End file.
